Chapter 29: A Perfect Disaster.

Chapter 29: Chapter 29: A Perfect Disaster.

Silence had never descended so fast, and never been quite so deafening. Up until that moment the courtyard had been filled with all the commotion expected of a party turned sour, but when that horrific sound broke the night, all there was, was silence. A horrifying one –one that dragged on, and on, with hundreds and hundreds of eyes drawn to its source, drawn almost magnetically to the shattered remains of a marble statue –a particular marble statue that the Lord Sprida had been overtly proud of, a bust of the handsome son he was also so overtly proud of.

"A true work of art," the Lord had been heard proclaiming earlier in the night. A pricey little piece, to be sure –he doubted (often, and loudly) that there were many families in the kingdom who could afford such a masterpiece –but of course it was worth every ounce of gold. His family was so very old and important, so it only stood to reason that only the finest of craftsmen be employed to immortalise the heir to such a noble dynasty. The sculptor had been of a fine mould himself –commissioning a commoner would have been a disgrace, art required a refined touch –a clean touch –and had managed to capture his son’s features –proof of the finery in his genes –spectacularly. Could they see the nobility in his face? The strength in his gaze? His natural charm and poise practically oozing from the marble?

Montrel had been able to see no such things, and had been comforted when he had seen a sceptical eye roll or two from some of his fellow guards. Unfortunately, Lord Spidra never tired of speaking of the perfect son he’d sired.

Also unfortunately, for all the masterpiece Lord Spidra had claimed that marble bust was, it was now nothing finer than a shattered plate, little more than scattered shards lying where it had fallen when Khobi had staggered into it –a broken in the mess of blood, food and wine that pooled about his dirty bare feet.

Ah fuck, Montrel cursed inwardly, closing his eyes in a kind of dry resignation, now you’ve done it.

The silence wore on, cold and shocked, and the animosity growing like a disease with every second. And Khobi seemed to sense it, his body tensing and his brow dipping into a frown as his eyes danced wildly across the crowd, like he was searching for something –or waiting.

And that was when Montrel looked at him –really looked at him while the crowd lingered on the marble fragments that littered the ground. He immediately tensed on reflex, and felt Yaka do the same beside him, because to any one –soldiers or not –the redhead looked to be gearing up for a fight.

The spell broke with a shrill shriek and the ring of blades being unsheathed, as something in Khobi’s hand caught some glancing candlelight.

"He’s got a knife!"

Some soldiers they all were –too distracted by a broken piece of pricey stone to notice the pretty little blade –no doubt a prize stolen from the man who would squeeze the life from him –that Khobi had clutched in his right hand. The commotion started up again, rising in the clanging of swords being drawn as the nobles shrunk back well and good this time –the ladies fleeing to the edges of the courtyard and their husbands bustling after them as quickly as they could without appearing cowardly.

And as expected of a flighty king, Gurdet, still loitering in his seat above the debacle as though it were nothing out of the ordinary –did nothing but watch, neither ordering them to attack nor stand down.

But of course they couldn’t stand down –guest or not –prince or not –they couldn’t just let an armed man run rampant in the castle. And as expected, Khobi was showing no signs of throwing down his weapon any time soon. Instead, he was fidgeting with the blade, almost daring the soldiers to break rank from the phalanx that had formed against him. It was with a grimace that Montrel suddenly realised how many of those soldiers –too many for his liking –were dressed in blue, and looking not to King Gurdet for orders –

–But to another, overseeing the proceedings with ill-concealed hostility, a man dressed in the same blue and gold finery, with golden hair fanned back off his stern face and russet eyes that held both displeasure, and a hint of red. And in his hesitation, Montrel watched him, watched his lip curl into a grimace that marred what many considered a handsome face –watched him give his waiting men a curt nod that one didn’t have to be a soldier to understand.

"Oh fuuuck," Montrel gritted out through clenched teeth. He and the rest of his comrades had never taken Khobi on blade on blade –not really –and their captain, (and by association, them), saw fit to humour their king’s claims that he was a guest to some extent, and therefore treated him with as much civility as could be afforded considering the circumstances. But these men in blue, and the Lord they served, were under no such illusions –so who knew what they might do? Khobi was gonna get his idiot self killed if he wasn’t careful. Which, he generally wasn’t.

But, because he had no choice –he was a guard and it was technically his duty to guard the people of Crade (even the insufferable ones) –he curled his hand around the hilt of the short sword hanging at his hip, and dragged it free from its sheath.

...

It was difficult to describe exactly what happened next.

Embarrassing, was the first descriptor to come to mind.

Really, to look at the scuffle going on down on the courtyard, it was rather difficult to believe that Crade had come to be considered such a military powerhouse of a kingdom. Granted, soldiers tended not to be drunk when waging wars, but that was hardly an excuse for the highly trained, highly skilled men –those who were entrusted with the safety of the kingdom and it’s people –to look like a bunch of ragtag children chasing after a mouse in the schoolyard.

Gods, what an affair.

Nothing was sacred, and nothing was spared. Not the plant features, or the décor, or the dignity of the guards fervently pursuing the young prince. Especially not that last one. They were barking orders over one another, fighting not to slip in spilled food and impale themselves or their peers as they staggered across the courtyard after Khobi. They were shouting at the crowd and shoving nobles clear of their path –a clear breach of decorum that Gurdet was no doubt going to have to deal with in the morning –and doing their utmost to engage Khobi for long enough to keep his hellfire from spreading to anymore of the castle.

If only the prince himself were a little more obliging.

The knife in his hand might never have went for a throat –never buried itself deep enough for a mortal wound –he knew as well as they all did that to do so would spell his own demise. (As much as Gurdet might like his games, the death of one of his own at the hand of a stranger would be something he could not let slide) –but nonetheless, he fought with the savagery of a man who’d faced terrible odds before –a man who knew how dangerous it was to let himself be surrounded or pinned in a corner. The guards tried, bless them, they did –but their quarry turned aside their strikes with his stolen blade, and danced away from their blows with the kind of hard won litheness that could only be earned over a thousand fights.

Amused, and more curious than he cared to admit –because who could help but wonder at the outcome if the young prince were better armed, or more inclined towards lethal force –Gurdet’s lips quirked into a small smile as he raised his glass to the wild young man as if in mocking toast.

Fascinating.

The guards did not seem to share the sentiment –not enjoying the chase nearly as much as their king. And all around them, tables overturned, statues toppled, and anything that chanced upon Khobi’s warpath went crashing to the ground in pieces.

Gurdet amended his previous observation with a wince as another priceless statue –sandstone, this time –shattered on the courtyard and sent nobles and soldiers alike scattering. He had likened him to a mouse, and his guards to the children who so futilely chased after him, but where mice ran scared, Khobi certainly did not, and his wilful destruction was far more feline in nature –so the scene before him was more like someone had unleashed a wild cat of unfortunate size and ferocity upon the castle.

Ah well, wouldn’t be the first time.

Parties just weren’t parties unless something went wrong, after all.

And if Gurdet had thought that there was nothing that could make this evening any more of a perfect disaster, then he was sorely mistaken.